Footsteps
by messengercat
Summary: It's not that she hates him; it's just that she's scared.


_A/N._ Written over a year ago, quite probably during class, only just dug it up again while sorting through folders and figured I should probably actually post it as opposed to leave it gathering dust again for another year.

_Disclaimer:_ Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

**Footsteps**

It's not that she hates him; it's just that she's scared.

She hears the footsteps, always a few paces behind her. Yet, whenever she looks back, spinning round sharply in the middle of the street, hoping the catch him unawares there is no one there. Just the normal, everyday crowd of commuters, the annoyed woman with a latte on the run that she has just bumped into or middle-aged man who has had to stop and look up from his morning paper to avoid a collision.

She feels the gentle brush of wings as she turns away. Yet, whenever she spins back round, there is no one there. No one and nothing. No phantom owl or leather-clad king. Just the sniggering teenagers, amused by her paranoid confusion as she spins in circles in the middle of the street, frustrated at nothing and no one as she turns once again on her heels and storms down the road. Annoyed with herself. With him. With the world for playing tricks on her tripped out mind.

Toby had thought it was funny when his sister would walk around the house every night, checking all the windows and the light bulbs. Karen had asked her many times over if she was alright, if this nightly ritual was truly healthy. Her father had merely observed her for a while before taking his wife's side and asking if there was anything they could do to help her. Clearly something was wrong. Jumping at shadows and never leaving her window open, even in the heat of the summer. She had just smiled and told them she was fine as she slammed the locks in place.

It's a habit she has never broken though; checking that every window in her small apartment is locked at night, the door dead-bolted and a hefty torch sitting on her bedside table. Practical in the case of a power cut. Practical for beating any unwelcome guests round the head should they intrude on her rest. She likes to call it being prepared. But the truth, her tired mind whispers as she lies awake at night watching the dark shapes flickering past her curtains, is that she only wants to chase away the shadows that follow in her footsteps. She just wants a proper night's sleep.

Yet when she dreams, she walks and where she walks can be anywhere. Through a park. Across deserts. Down the winding passageways of an abandoned castle or glorified palace. The world's imagination is her playground and she is free to roam. She can make flowers dance and pass through solid walls. Defy the laws of physics or paint the world a rainbow of new colours. She can do anything. Everything. It's her imagination – her dream – after all.

She can spin round and round in circles and collapse to the ground laughing, creating as much noise as she can on her own.

She can try and drown out the footsteps following just a few paces behind her. The ghost wings on her skin. The echo of a storm and the rattling of locked windows.

She can try and drown out the senseless songs and meaningless words that chase round her dream-hazed mind. The ghost touch of silk and leather.

She can try and forget the images she sees in the mirror every time she looks at her reflection.

When she wakes up she is still tired, but she will catch up on her sleep during class. At lunch. On her break at work. Sleep surrounded by noise and other people she knows as opposed to strangers and silence. She washes, dresses and drags a brush through her hair. Throws her things in her bag, making a note to grab breakfast from the shop down the road and snatches up her keys.

She doesn't want to look in the hallway mirror, but out of habit she always has. Another habit she's been unable to kick since her teenage years, double checking her appearance before heading out. Another habit she wishes – no, not wishes – she could be rid of as she smiles sadly back at the reflection of the man who is not standing behind her. A ghost of footsteps and an unheard voice. An owl that isn't really waiting for her to step out into the sunlight and follow her down the road.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking when she turns so fast in the middle of the street.

Because it's not that she hates him as she closes her eyes and rests her head on the cool glass, averting her gaze to hide the fear she does not understand.

It's just that she's scared.

And she doesn't know why when she loves him so.

* * *

It's not that he hates her; it's just that he's scared.

He watches her walk away again, wishing she would call him, hoping she wouldn't, closing his hand round the crystal ball, letting it turn to dust and trickle through his fingers. There is always work to be done, a kingdom which needs his attention and selfish children who need to be taught a lesson or two in respect. He cannot spare the time for just one little girl. One little girl who had already grown up in the blink of an eye, and if he blinks again she will not only have grown up but grown old. Blink again…

He shakes the dark thought from his mind, replacing it with work, trivialities, goblins, chickens and anything else in which he can bury the image of the dark haired girl. Because it's not that he hates her as he glances back at the abandoned crystal and shakes his head again, but still she lingers there, just out of reach.

It's just that he's scared.

And he knows it's because he loves her so.


End file.
